


Reach Down

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Garage Tapes [4]
Category: Gotham City Garage (Comics)
Genre: Antoine's moment of stone-cold badassery, Antoine's not having fun either, Croc is now having a small amount of fun, Gen, Injury, Jason spends most of this unconscious or otherwise useless, Sucks to be you, Threats of being eaten, are they dead, cliiiiifhanger hanging from a cliiiiiif, just so you know, not you, really nobody's having fun, sucks to be Jason more though, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-07-08 19:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15936638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: They can't really prove that he's gone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Temple of the Dog song. Fun fact! This was supposed to be a one-parter, but, uh, I saw my chance for a cliffie. And, um, my inner supervillain took over.
> 
> Croc, according to an Arkham Knight extra (Season of Infamy, maybe?), can…regrow things. Granted, it probably takes him a bit of time, but this is an AU anyway so we’re gonna get a little bit hydra up in here. BUCKLE UP, Y’ALL.

There was no way to be prepared for this.

Really, there wasn’t. They’d expected Luthor would start sending the heavy hitters to protect his shit. The Bat, maybe, or his little enforcers. More tanks. **Something.** But that thing? Nobody could have predicted that.

It had been big. Green. And there’d been teeth. That’s the best Antoine’s got-he only got a peek of it

**One ton if it’s an ounce what the hell is that?**

when it ripped through the top of the truck,

**Solid steel and it’s going through it like butter WHAT THE FUCK-**

heaved itself out,

**S’that a tail?**

and tackled the boss off his bike. And then they’d.

This road. This road’s thin and dangerous and **right** at the edge of a ravine, two hundred feet at the least, and-and Jason, he always skirts the edge because it’s quicker and he’s a goddamn dumbass sometimes, and…

He may as well not have been here at all. No bike, no body, and the wind’s wiped out the tire tracks already.

They got the truck-it had been banking, Antoine thinks, on whatever that thing was taking out more of them-but it. It doesn’t matter. It does, logically it does, but…

“What do we do?” Jimmy asks softly. They’re still here, to catch their breaths and…and out of shock, to be honest. This wasn’t…this kinda life is dangerous, it’s not that. But that was just so fucking **sudden**. A minute, maybe less, that’s all it had been.

He’s dead. He has to be. That thing was big and even if it had been a chihuahua, that drop…

But there’s instructions. Antoine has read over them exactly once. They involve fire because, and he’s quoting here, “Like hell am I digging my way out of another grave.”

Now, admittedly, he’s pretty sure that in cases of long drops, they get a bit of a free pass for not following those instructions, but…he can at least give it a try. And if he’s gonna be honest, as insanely unlikely as it is…

They can’t really prove that he’s gone.

He does a mental inventory. Rifle, couple’a grenades, the rope gun he uses to bring down other bikes and, if he’s lucky and has a good angle in a good location, trucks. (Bob and weave, latch onto the front of the truck and hook onto a sturdy rock formation and WHAM, the truck is now an acrobat.)*

He could, feasibly, get down there.

“Get this back to base,” he says at last. “I’m gonna see what I can see.”

“There’s nothing to see!” Jimmy swipes his beret and hits him with it. Antoine takes it back, scowling, and readjusts it. Heathen. “If you die, then we’re down two leaders and it’ll be anarchy.”

“It will not.”

“Don’t be stupid-don’t. Don’t you dare. What the hell, what are you doing, are you **insane-** ”

So maybe it’s not entirely nice to latch onto a rock and just sort of…hop off the ledge, but if Jimmy calls for backup, backup might be Trent and Trent will probably just carry him back to base.

“You fucker!” Jimmy screeches from the top. “You stupid sonofabitch-fine. Fine. Fucking fall. Fucking get stuck.”

The yelling doesn’t follow him as far down as he thought it would. That’s a little weird, but…before…the monster was roaring and then it wasn’t.

Although, he thinks a minute later, there might be another reason. There’s blood and what looks like a scale on the side of the ravine. He’d like to reach over and see if that really **is** a scale, but honestly, he doesn’t want to let go of his rope.

He can’t see the bottom. His feet hit a ledge, though, and once he’s sure it’ll hold him, he retracts the line, narrowly avoids hitting himself in the face with the claw, and takes a minute to try and figure how far down he is.

There was a good bit of line left, so he’s thinking maybe…fifty feet? He’s bad at distances. It’s kind of amazing he hasn’t crashed his bike and died. But yeah, he’s guessing fifty feet, and apart from the blood smear up there, there’s…there’s no sign.

He’s not gonna lie, he kinda hoped that maybe…maybe Jason’d caught a ledge like this one, gotten lucky.

It’s not nearly as hot, even just down this far, and the dirt hasn’t been baked so hard that it’s cracked. Honestly, it makes him a little nervous, latching onto the wall to proceed. Up there, once you get into the ground, you’re not getting back out easy. Down here, he’s envisioning, like, the claw popping free and dropping him. Which it won’t, he’ll be fine. It’s just his vivid imagination, that’s all.

A cactus is erupting from the wall, arms outstretched to give him a spiky hug. He moves around it, boots crunching against the dirt, and tries to see if there’s any more ledges below. He can’t see any, but he’s got line still. He’s gonna be fine-

**Clink.**

The line in his hands goes…slack. Just a little, it’s not falling, but. Um.

He freezes, practically hugging the dirt, and looks again. No ledge to catch him. No ledge to jump to. Nothing but the rest of the way down.

His vision swims and he swallows, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will his heart to chill. It does not chill. It doesn’t even try to chill. If anything, it beats faster out of spite.

Something stabs his thigh and he winces, tenses up and feels the rope slacken a little more. Okay. Okay. Careful. He is careful, he is calm, he’s just gonna **gently** reach over and see what that is.

It’s his knife, the big bowie knife that he keeps for serious emergencies. Maybe…maybe-maybe…

Like he’s got a choice, really.

He draws it, risks a lot of movement to jab it into the wall, and tests his weight for like two seconds. Okay. It held. It held for two seconds, maybe it can help him not die until he gets to firmer dirt or another ledge or something.

Okay.

It’s slow going after that. Embed knife in deep enough to hold him (hopefully, if it doesn’t snap at the hilt), move down just far enough that he has to stretch a bit to keep his grip, move knife.

He’s maybe halfway down when two things happen. One, the rope goes limp and starts bending over him. Two, there’s a godawful **SNAP!** and his arm is suddenly flung out behind him and the sky is shrinking.

**Ohgodohgodohgodohgod-**

**Thud.**

Stars. He sees stars. And his back hurts like a mother and there’s a cactus stabbing him in the ass. But he sees stars, and, as he finds out a second later, he’s not seriously hurt. Bruised, maybe, and scared half to death, but nothing more than that.

His breath is drying out his nose and mouth and he’s **shaking** , badly. The handle of his knife is nowhere to be seen, but his line is, somehow, still clutched in his fingers. What…

Another ledge, he finds out when he rolls over. Narrower than the first, but he can see that bottom. **He can see the bottom.** There’s something big down there, but he’s not close enough to tell if it’s a rock or that monster or maybe even the boss. S’just a blur.

Though to be fair, the stars are still kinda here, so.

He pulls himself into a sitting position and leans against the wall. The stabby cactus stares at him accusingly, like he was aiming for it. What a little shit. It’s its own fault for growing in the way!

He flips it off. On principle.

As much as he’d like to sit here for maybe forever, he can’t. He knows that. So he feels around until he finds the firmest patch of wall he can reach, digs in, and goes for it. This time he works with speed over safety. Further down he gets, the better his chances of surviving another fall. He can do twenty feet. Might hurt, might even break something, but he’s done it before.

Once.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to do it again. When he hits the bottom, it takes everything he’s got not to sink to his knees and kiss the ground. Or pledge himself to it, or **something.**

The big shape turns out to be what’s left of Jason’s bike. The bars have been ripped almost clean off-the only thing keeping them attached are the wires. The tires are crushed nearly flat, and the whole thing clearly flared, however briefly, when it hit the ground-it’s black and smoking.

The sand around the bike is **red**. He thinks that’s an animal’s tooth, just there, but it’s…it’s huge. Nearly as big as his lost knife.

Sharper, too, looks like. He takes it. You never know.

“Boss?” His voice doesn’t echo. That can’t be good. “Jason?”

He doesn’t respond to either, but where the hell is he? Did that thing drag him off somewhere? He might still be alive, if it hit the ground before he did, or something-

“Anybody down here?”

No answer. No nothing. There’s not even a spooked bird.

He adjusts his grip on the tooth, trying not to slice through his glove, and follows the red sand. It takes a sharp curve a few feet down, into a crack-a cave, his mistake-in the wall. He doesn’t want to go in there-his penlight is not enough-but he’s not going back up there for backup, either. He can’t. By the time they get what they need and get back down here…Jason’s probably dead already, but by that time? Absolutely.

He gives his eyes a few minutes to adjust. It’s still pretty light, at least up near the front, which means that he can see rocks and-

“Boss!”

Jason’s sprawled against the wall like something threw him there. The blood trail doesn’t seem to lead to him, but he’s not moving and Antoine can’t tell if his neck is **really** at that sort of angle or not.

He crouches down next to him and clicks on his light. It’s better than nothing.

Okay. Jason’s breathing-it doesn’t sound good, but it’s steady enough, even with that little jump to it that says he’s got broken ribs.

**At minimum…**

His helmet’s gone, probably broken if the cuts on his face are any indication. There’s a kink in his arm that turns out to be a dislocated elbow, and wow, that leg is going nowhere, that appears to be **bone** , okay. Shit. Um. He is not qualified to do anything to that.

“C’mon, boss, wake up. Talk to me, sir.”

Nothing. The elbow, at least, he can fix, and honestly, it’s probably better to do it now, while he’s nice and pliable. If nothing else, it might wake him up.

**Pop!**

It doesn’t. The noise echoes in the little cave, though, and Antoine freezes. Nothing comes lumbering out of the darkness.

It’s something.

He gives Jason a firm poke, suddenly very paranoid about what might be down here. There’s stories, sometimes, about monstrous insects that drip acid instead of venom. He’s never seen one, but he’s never actually climbed down here, either.

“Wakey, wakey, vegetables and sadness,” he tries. Either that seriously works (it would…) or his timing’s just that good, because Jason stirs, a little bit, and his breathing speeds up. Antoine reaches over to give him another shake and **now** he’s up, at least kinda-his uninjured arm flies up and his fingers are suddenly digging into Antoine’s wrist like they’re determined to break it. “C’mon, boss,” he says carefully, because he did not fucking fall down here to break his wrist this way. “You gotta wake up, we gotta get outta here.”

The fingers don’t drop, but they do ease up.

“Huh…?” He can wait. “Drouot…what…”

Recognition! Hallelujah, no amnesia. Or at least, only partial amnesia.

“You took a bit of a fall, boss. Remember?”

“No shit.” Good. “What’re you doing…” His voice trails off and his fingers tighten around Antoine’s wrist again. “Go.”

“What?”

**“Go.”**

With all due respect, Jason needs to shut the fuck up before Antoine kills him and goes back to report that ‘yup, dead as dust, so sad, who’s for tacos?’

“I didn’t climb all the way down here just to turn around and-”

**Grrrrrrrrr.**

What was that. That didn’t sound good.

There’s a heavy **shhuuuck** from somewhere behind him and he turns around in time to see movement-namely, something dragging itself into the dark.

Okay. Okay, nothing’s charging at him, or even just looking. He’s okay. They’re gonna get outta here and Mark’s gonna be mad and someone’ll call Jason’s mom and she’ll be **pissed** , but they’re gonna get outta here.

The blood trail does not lead towards the dark, or even far from the entrance at all. Now that his eyes are a little more adjusted to the gloom, he can see a-

-that’s a tail.

Oh good God, that’s a…that’s a **tail** , ripped off at the stump

**Bone probably tore through when it hit the wall coming down.**

a-and it’s all ragged edges and it’s **big** , easily four feet or more and that’s a fucking **tail** what the hell where’s the rest of that thing?

“S-sir?”

Jason swallows and his hand finally drops back down.

“It pulled it off. When we got in here, an’ it got a better look, it jus’. Reached around and ripped it off.” What is this thing, Godzilla? God dammit, Luthor, why’d you make a Godzilla, huh? Did you learn nothing? “Get out. Right now. That’s an order.”

“You’re concussed, boss,” he points out, “and clearly not thinking straight. Sorry.”

Jason tries to give him a shove. Antoine sways with it, admittedly, but he’s a little shaky from his fall. Not shaky enough to lose his balance, or knocked around enough to leave.

“Don’t be an idiot-”

**Grrrrrrrr.**

Neither of them breathe. When nothing comes out of the dark, Antoine sinks down the wall, rifle in his lap. Okay. They’re just going to be really still, until that thing goes to sleep or something, and then they’ll take inventory and see about getting out of here sometime this year. Everything’s fine.

At least, until there’s a sharp burst of static and an angry, “Antoine, if you didn’t fall and die, you get your ass back up here right now!”

One, wow, his radio works. Two, shit, his radio works.

**GRRRRRRRRRR.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Shamelessly borrowed (and edited, a little) from _The Dark Knight_. Bonus trivia: they really did flip that. That’s not CGI. That is an actual 18-wheeler going ass-over-tea kettle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My inner supervillain is still in charge. You know what, blame Dr. Crane. He taught me everything I know about embracing that little nut. Only, y'know, with less murder and mayhem. I'm lazy. That's too much work.

Well. Antoine never thought he’d say this, but WHY COULDN’T HIS RADIO HAVE DIED?

He scrambles for it even as the static and rage continue, finally yanking it out of his jacket. Unfortunately, the noise has lured out-

-that’s a dinosaur. Fuck it, that’s the best he can do. Luthor has cloned a dinosaur. Or, like, jimmy-rigged one together with frog DNA or something.

It’s big, maybe ten feet tall? Maybe bigger. The face is…vaguely…human, but not enough to help-the jaws still stick out too far, like a crocodile’s, and even counting a few missing and broken teeth, it, uh…

It can totally eat them. They’re screwed.

It’s sniffing the air, head tilted, and maybe it’s crazy, but he’s not sure it can see them. Maybe it lost its eyes in the fall, that’d actually be great.

“…you didn’t fall and die, did you? Antoine?”

**GRRRR.**

The head whips towards them, lips drawing back to reveal even more teeth, and before he can rip the batteries out or something, Jason’s tugged the radio from his hands and thrown it away from them. It bounces on the ground before skittering behind a rock.

“Hello? C’mon, man, pick up. Today, you idiot, it’s the green button-”

**RROOOAARR!**

It lumbers towards the radio. From this angle, he can see where the tail was-a ragged, circular area near the base of the spine. It’s not bleeding. Hell, it looks scabbed over already. What **is** this thing?

“Did you find him-fuck, is he still **alive-** ”

The radio silences with a nasty **crunch**. The dinosaur’s head comes up, the antennae caught between its teeth, and swivels side-to-side.

Maybe it really can’t see them.

Whatever the case, it drags itself back to the darkness and he hears it plop down. After a few more minutes, low chuffs (snores?) start up.

Jason gives him another push and hisses, “Go.”

“Go where?” he hisses back. “There’s no magic elevator to the top!”

“How’d you get down here?”

“Carefully.”

“Then get back up that way.”

No.

“I don’t think I can.” He lets his head drop back against the cool stone. Feels nice. Y’know, minus the jutty-outy bits that are seeking out bruises on his spine. “Want me to try doing something to that?”

“To what-oh.” Jason looks at his leg and grimaces. “No. It might fix itself, I got it.” He swallows and takes a few unsteady breaths. “I got it back in line. Sort of. Back under the skin, anyway.”

Yeah, he’s so not qualified for that. He’s just gonna leave it alone.

“Great.”

“Mm.”

The chuffs in the dark stutter a bit and they shut up. When nothing bad happens, Antoine relaxes. A little.

The cave, he thinks, goes pretty far back. Walls have a way of making themselves known, even in pitch black, and this feels too open to be some sort of duck-into shelter. He’s not sure why this matters, but it’s good to know your surroundings.

He unclips his water from his belt, takes a swallow, and offers it to Jason. Jason shakes his head, taps the floor-no, his canteen-by his hip. ‘Least there’s that…but the water in his mouth only really served to remind him how hot it is outside.

Probably not for long, though-the light is starting to wane, and it’s with grim resignation that he realizes that they’ll be here for the night at least.

The temperature seems to drop twenty degrees. The prospect of a night in here, with whatever that thing is, is…he’d sooner take his chances in the Garden, to be honest. Batman can’t be that bad.

“How are you still alive?”

“Bumbles bounce.” Jason grins. Looks pained. “It broke my fall. Kind of.”

At least there’s that.

“Any internal injuries?”

“Does my lack of soul count?” It’s about to be a lack of pulse. “Don’t think so.” Another nudge, but this one’s more of an attention-getter. “Anything broken?”

“No. Just some bruises. I, uh, took a shortcut.”

“S’good.” He shifts a bit, jaw clenched, and manages to prop himself up a little more. “Okay. F’you take my line, you might be able to. To like, hookshot your way back out of here.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“You’re still concussed.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t-” He glances at the dark spot and forces himself to lower his voice. “Doesn’t matter, I’m not leaving.”

He doesn’t get an answer. Probably for the best.

His rifle is a comforting weight in his lap. Inspection says it’s got one less shot than he thought it did, but then he realizes it must’ve gone off when he fell. Well. There’s a literal bullet dodged, huh?

**Ba-dum-tiss!**

S’fine. He’s still got four shots, and a pouchful of bullets sewn inside his jacket. A grenade, too, but he really doesn’t wanna go there. That’s only coming out if it’s die or be killed.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Huh?

Is there water down here?

It’d be nice, he thinks. He doesn’t really wanna drink it, but he would not be above drenching his hat and maybe wiping his face off a little bit. It can’t be that far, if he can hear it, so maybe…if he’s cautious…

“I’ll be right back,” he says, easing himself off the floor and realizing that crap, he’s gotten **stiff.** “Don’t move, okay?”

“Bold of you to presume* otherwise.”

Fair point.

He leaves Jason the rifle but keeps the tooth, wishes his boots weren’t **quite** so heavy, and ninjas his way towards the dripping noise. The dirt is soft and quiet and he thinks there must be at least a little bit of water down here.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

**Snuffle-snort!**

He’s not panicking. He’s…mildly alarmed. But he is absolutely not panicking. Real men don’t panic!

**We’re men…we’re men in tights!**

Y’know, tights always looked…uncomfortable. They don’t look like they breathe. But what does he know, he’s never been stricken with the urge to put some on.

He must have hit his head a little harder than he thought.

The dripping sounds closer. The dirt feels softer, too, and when he reaches down to touch it, it’s cool and…and damp, and his fingers bump into what turns out to be a mushroom. He’s not gonna eat it-mushrooms are gross and half the time they’re poisonous anyway-but he’s happy to find it. Even if it…wobbles, a little. Like it’s alive.

Mushrooms are creepy.

He inches forward a little more, hand stretched out, and admittedly flails in terror when something cold drops onto it. Water. There’s water, he found it, worst case they can risk the parasites! Ha-ha!

Doing a happy dance will probably wake up the dinosaur, but he’s tempted to do it anyway. He settles for crouching down, dipping his hand into what feels like it might spread out to be a good-sized pool, and tugging his beret (he needs to patch it…again) off his head. When nothing rises from the depths and bites off his hand, he dunks the hat in the water, wrings it out, and settles it back on. Ahh. Instant cooldown.

He drenches his bandanna next, wrings it out a little less, and makes his way back. Jason’s eyes are closed, and when Antoine gives him a little shake, the look he gets is confused.

“When…” He blinks a few times. It doesn’t seem to help. “What’re you doing here?”

That can’t be good.

“What do you remember, sir?” he asks gently. “Anything?”

“F-fell. Didn’t I?”

“After that?”

“Hrm.”

The non-answer says more than anything else. Antoine grimaces, takes his rifle back, and settles back down against the wall. He reaches over and drapes the bandanna around Jason’s neck. Steam may as well be rising from it and **oh, that explains so much.**

“You shouldn’ be ‘ere.”

“Too late now.”

Jason doesn’t answer. He does, after a few minutes, slump sideways and onto Antoine’s shoulder, his sudden weight nearly toppling them both over. Everything’s fine. They’ll just sit here and be as still and quiet as possible and someone’ll come. Right? That sudden cut-off from his radio’s untimely death should rouse suspicion. Worst case, he’ll do what the boss said to do earlier-take the other line, hookshot his way out, and get support.

**Snort-chuff-snuffle!**

But for now, this is the safest option.

* * *

Antoine’s floating in some half-aware state when something wakes him up.

Nothing looks any different. Well, it’s dark now (really dark), but other than that…nothing’s changed. Jason’s still asleep (not dead) and the dripping’s still there, so what…

There is a conspicuous lack of snoring.

Now, that could be totally fine. Maybe the dinosaur died. Or moved on. Or just rolled over and stopped snoring. There’s no reason to worry. And he won’t. Everything’s fine.

He takes a drink, knowing only too well that he hasn’t drunk enough today and being unable to jack about it, and tries to jostle Jason awake.

“Boss? C’mon, you gotta wake up, you should probably drink something.”

“Mm…”

“Wake **up.** ” He tries to prop him back up against the wall, but he won’t stay, just tips back over. “Come on, come on…”

“Five mo’ minutes…”

“No more minutes, wake up.”

He won’t. It’s probably out of stubbornness, but all he does is smush down against Antoine’s shoulder again. Okay. It’s fine. Sleep is good. It’s a nice, quiet activity. The, uh, the not waking up isn’t ideal, but, uh, he’s. Sort of responsive. Right?

He tugs out his penlight, wonders how long the battery will last. He clicks it on and sweeps it from the entrance (no moon tonight, of **course** not) to the tail (still there, still gross), to OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT-

The yellow eye, big as a child’s hand, squints at the beam. The shadowy head ducks away and the beam slides over the rest of it-clawed hands, tree-trunk legs, a stubby tail (huh?) as it retreats to the dark.

It was literally ten feet away. Maybe not even that. So it can be quiet, this…

They’re dead. They’re gonna friggin’ die down here.

He turns off the light and tries to convince himself this is no more dangerous than that game he and his sister used to play, where they’d go out to the Canyons of Clay and stand with their backs turned, right at the entrance. Nothing ever happened then. Nothing will happen now. Just a child’s game.

At least it can’t come up from behind them.

He gets the shock of his life when a gravelly voice shoots out of the blackness in front of him.

_“I’ve got your scent.”_

It can talk. Okay. That’s. Maybe he can nice his way out of this. He’s cuted himself out of getting arrested.

Once.

“What’s your name?”

Silence, then startled laughter. It’s nasty laughing, like something out of a nightmare. Maybe that’s what this is, something pulled out of somebody’s dreams. Whatever it is, the laughter cuts off and there’s a snapping sound, bone meeting bone, like it’s gnashing its teeth.

 _“The scared ones taste better.”_ A soft splashing and slurping. It’s by the water, then. _“And you’re scared shitless, eh?”_

“I’d, uh, I’d like to know the name of whatever’s going to eat me,” he says carefully, thumb resting on the light’s button. “I mean, it’s like donating an organ, you want to know who’s getting it.”

More laughter. Jason shudders and mumbles something Antoine doesn’t catch.

_“No.”_

Fine. Be a dick.

More slurping, then a big splash. It’s in the water, then, or at least wants him to think so. He’s tempted to take a potshot over there, but that might make it mad and he needs his bullets.

He settles for staying very still, one hand clutching the light and the other resting on the rifle in his lap. His mouth is dry and his heart’s pounding like a rabbit’s, **thudthudthudthud** both drowning out and amplifying everything.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says at last. “When it’s light out, we’re just gonna get out of your, uh, scales.”

When it doesn’t answer, he wonders if it’s ignoring him, or if it’s skulking under water and didn’t hear him. Maybe it drowned.

But then a small tidal wave sloshes towards them. It doesn’t reach them, but the dirt it kicks up settles close to Jason’s boots.

 _“You boys ain’t going anywhere,”_ the thing snarls. _“Now shut up. I’m trying to decide who’s dinner and who’s dessert.”_

 

 

 

 

 

*Yes, I know it’s ‘assume’. Jason got out of the habit of using that particular word after one too many times of people going, ‘you know what they say about assuming!’ It’s a defense mechanism.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was NOT supposed to take as long as it did, but Antoine put up a fight about having to do it. So. I don't blame him, exactly, but that's literally why. One more chapter, I promise that's all.

The dinosaur has not come closer. As far as Antoine can tell, it’s still in the water. Maybe it’s magic water. He doubts it, because he’s still sore and Jason’s clearly not fine.

Further inspection corrects ‘not fine’ to ‘worse’-he’s warmer than he was earlier, and his breathing’s gotten more labored. He’s more responsive, though, stirring a little when Antoine finally has to move him all to the way to ground.

“Hrm…?”

“Sorry, boss,” he breathes. “You’re kinda useless like this. I need my arm.”

“Jus’ go, ‘ll be fine…”

“Sh.”

He _sh_ s, which is a miracle on its own. Before Antoine can coax him into taking a drink, he’s passed out again.

He looks in the direction of his radio’s resting place, wonders if it’s worth going and trying to cobble it back together. Frank could do it, he’s sure. But Frank’s, like, magic. He just has to look at technology and it works. He’s a Tech Whisperer.

And the antennae was…pretty well crunched.

He remembers, suddenly, that the talking dinosaur (come on…) had…it had gone after the **noise** , despite them being sitting ducks. Surely it knows where they are, right? Right?

But maybe…it’s just a theory. A wild, probably-wrong theory. But it’s not like he can go anywhere. What does he have to lose? Well, y’know, besides a limb.

He feels around until he comes up with a good-sized rock. Okay…he doesn’t want to accidentally nail it in the head or something, and it was in the water last he heard, so…

He throws it across the cave, where it hits the ground with a solid **thunk-thunk-thunk!** * It sounds loud to him, but he could just be paranoid.

He’s not. There’s an awful splashing and roaring noise and the sound of something charging towards the rock. The growling eventually dies off and then, a few minutes later, there’s the nearly imperceptible sound of the thing sliding back into the water.

Good to know.

He leans back against the wall, trying to keep his breaths as shallow as possible, and wonders when the sun’s gonna come up. Nasty things wander around at night, and as bad as this is, better the dinosaur you know and all that.

Okay. This thing has to be some kind of animal. It looks like one. It sort of acts like one. It’s apparently intending to eat them. So.

He’s not picking a fight with that thing. It’s already regrowing its tail, for crying out loud. It’ll probably pop back up from a headshot like it ain’t no thang. But…maybe…earlier, it had said something about scents…

On a hunch, he slips out of his jacket. The loss of warmth is regrettable, but the potential loss of life sounds incredibly unappealing.

(But why, today of all days, did he have to go short sleeve? He’s never going short sleeve again.)

As much as it kills-pains, he’s gotta work on his word choice here-him, he gives himself a minute to be sure he won’t, like, suffer sudden-onset-hypothermia or something before standing halfway up and moving to the other side of the cave, feeling (and probably looking) like some sort of giant, demented crab. When nothing horrible befalls him, he lays his jacket down on the ground, hopes it survives the night, and goes back.

Jason’s half-curled into himself like a dead centipede, arms pulled up against his ribs. Antoine would like to get a look at that leg again, but he really doesn’t wanna turn on the light, either. Seeing as the boss isn’t, like, frothing at the mouth or anything, he’s just gonna have to figure that it’s fine. Or at least not actively killing him right this second. Or ever. He’ll be fine. They’ll both be fine.

Reaching down to check his pulse (fast, but better than it was last time) earns him an unhappy groan and an attempt to move away. He doesn’t really get anywhere, but Antoine pulls his hand back anyway before he can make too much noise. He stills, apart from drawing an arm up to cover his head. And there he stays, for what feels like hours but could be five minutes, until he deems it necessary to give Antoine a mild heart attack by reaching up and tapping his elbow.

Shut up. There’s a dinosaur in this cave. It’s scary.

“Boss?”

“Where s’it.”

“Water.” Speaking of… “Here. Sit up.”

“Mm-mm.” The hand falls. Antoine can **just** make out Jason stretching out a little bit before freezing up. “Fu-okay. Okay.”

“You have to drink something.”

“Tastes like metal.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Makes me sick.”

“Too bad.” He unscrews the top. “C’mon.”

Jason’s stubbornness apparently didn’t get broken in the fall-he levers himself up enough to take the canteen on his own.

“If I choke on puke, I’ll haunt you.”

The sad thing? Antoine believes him.

“You do that, sir.”

He takes a sip, makes a displeased noise, and starts patting himself down. A second later, he clicks his own light on, cups it in his hands, and shines it on his leg.

It. It doesn’t look that much better. Still swollen and bloody and a general mess. How he didn’t bleed to death is a mystery.

“Looks better than it did th-the.” He swallows and clicks the light off. “The last time I checked.”

Uh-huh. Sure it does. Then again, to be fair, he wasn’t here. Maybe it was, like, on fire or something then.

“F’you say so, boss.” Jason sinks back down, dead silent. Must be a conscious effort; he doesn’t even breathe until he’s flat again, and then it’s shaky and pained, catching in his throat more often than not. “You, uh, okay?”

“’Ve had worse.” Fair point. “What’s the situation.”

“Nothing’s on fire,” he says carefully. “The, uh, the dinosaur’s just hanging out in the water.”

“Mm.” Jason shifts a little bit. “What else.”

“It can talk.” He knows that sounds crazy. Too bad. “It wants to eat us.”

“I’m not even surprised.” A huffed laugh. “Drouot.”

“Boss?”

“F’I don’t make it outta here—”

“Bullshit.”

Jason flicks his knee. It hurts more than Antoine feels is fair.

“You know me ‘n plans,” he says. “So. F’I don’t make it outta here, tell my mom m’sorry.”

Honestly, Antoine really does not want to have to face her in the (completely unlikely, of **course** ) event that…things go south. Contrary to what it might look like, he has some sense of self-preservation. He really does like life.

“Okay, sir,” he says unhappily. “I’ll tell her.”

“Mm.” He yawns. “Good. S’good. M’gonna go back t’sleep f’r a little bit.”

“Maybe just, uh, sit quietly, huh?”

He doesn’t get an answer, but when he pokes him a few minutes later, he gets swatted at. Good. That’s good. Less good is the pained gasping.

Twenty minutes go by and nothing terrible happens. Nothing happens **period** , actually, unless you count a rat scurrying past their boots. Antoine’s just starting to think they can make it to sunrise unharmed when there’s the barely-audible sound of the water being breached.

He adjusts his grip on his rifle and tries not to breathe. The movements across the cave are slow, and it sounds like something’s being dragged. The thing’s snorting a little as it goes. Sounds like it’s hurting. Antoine wonders, a little, if it hurts all the time. That thing can’t be natural, it’s a…a freak of nature, or an experiment, or something. It **has** to be.

The thuds and snorts stop near where he left his coat and he clicks the safety off, picks up the flashlight in one hand, and adjusts it and the rifle so he’s holding them both. Okay. His grip is solid. He’s good here. He just…can’t mess this up.

His rifle-everyone’s rifles, really-is capable of ripping through the Batmobile’s tires. They’ve checked, at least on the model that they…acquired. So it should, hopefully, be able to damage the thing over there. Surely. It might take him a shot or two, but…y’know…

Now or never…

He clicks on the flashlight, throwing the crappy beam onto the hulking **thing** crouched over his jacket. Its head whips around, eyes narrowing, and he squeezes the trigger-

-just as it moves. What would have been a headshot turns into a legshot, bullet tearing through scales and flesh. The dinosaur howls and goes down, bone crunching under its weight, and Antoine’s just lined up another shot when the head dips down and the teeth dig into its own hip.

WHAT THE FRACK-

He fires again, but it’s thrashing as it chews and the bullet hits the wall above its head instead. The recoil finally sends the flashlight clattering to the dirt, where it abruptly goes out. The chewing. Dear GOD, the chewing noises-where is that goddamn light-

His shaking fingers have trouble gripping it, but he manages. When he turns it back on, it’s.

It’s gone. But the leg is still there, flesh ragged and bone splintered and shiny.

This is bad. This is very bad.

“What’d you do?” Jason murmurs. He sounds like he’s not fully awake.

“I.” He clicks off the light, for safety. “I don’t know. I thought I-it fucking chewed its leg off-and-and—”

“Huh?”

Chill. Be chill. He turns the light off, breathes through his mouth and tastes the smell of blood anyway, and forces himself to get it together.

“I shot it, and it. It chewed its.” He swallows. This is nothing. It’s just a slightly odd happenstance. “It chewed its leg off.”

“Hrm.” Jason doesn’t seem to be grasping how horrible it was. “Tha’s good.” He’ll never get that chewing noise out of his head for as long as he lives, he just knows it. “S’it gone?”

“I don’t know, sir. It, uh. It’s. It fled, I think.”

**I hope.**

He reloads (he could do that blindfolded, thank you very much), and drops back against the wall. Jason goes quiet again. Nervous poking gets a groan and a weak, “Stoppit.”

“You gotta stay awake, boss.” Did that thing go back in the water? He thinks it must’ve…he can’t hear anything. “For staying-alive reasons.” He really wishes he knew where it went… “Okay?”

“M’wake.” He pulls in a ragged gasp. “Fuck conch. Con.” Another gasp. “Consciousness.”

“Yeah, well, better than death.”

“Speak for yourself.” He moves a bit, hands scrambling for purchase in the dirt. “It’ll probably grow back. L-like the tail.”

Fan-freaking-tastic. He doesn’t deserve this. Jason…may deserve this, he’ll admit, but…nah, not really. Y’know who does? Grayson. Screw that guy. He’s fucked them over like, twelve times. He should be down here instead. Karma-dodging bastard would probably even live, so Antoine doesn’t have to feel bad for wishing it. It would be fair punishment for the fires, the maiming, and the puns that he has rained down on them.

He flexes his fingers on his rifle, ears pricked for…for anything, really…and does his best not to look at the gnawed-off leg. It’s hard. The moon’s finally risen, angled itself so that it hits it like nature’s most assholish spotlight, and, uh…it’s there.

Part of him wants to go and see if he can find it, finish it off. But another part of him knows how stupid it is to go wading into deep, dark water and hope for the best.

That, and maybe it’s learned its lesson and will leave them alone.

Or hold a grudge…

It’s only because he’s paranoid that he registers the gentle tug at his jacket. But he **does** register it, which means he can easily pry his grenade back out of Jason’s fingers.

“Really.”

Jason laughs. Sounds wet. Not healthy.

“Worth a. Shot.”

Bullshit. They’re in a cave. They don’t even have a measly box of scraps to build something with! And honestly, Antoine has heard too many scary stories about cave-ins and horrible deaths to be willing to throw the grenade.

“You’re a suicidal jackass,” he seethes. “Sir.”

“Death’s nosso bad. S’the. The comin’ back that sucks.”

Antoine doesn’t want to try either. He tucks the grenade into another pocket, a farther pocket, and settles for scowling into the dark. This is Luthor’s fault, if he wasn’t such a greedy, paranoid dick-for-brains…what kind of nut engineers a talking dinosaur, anyway? It’s not like they’ve stolen **that** much…

Okay, so maybe they have, but this is still overkill.

“Wha’s this?”

WHAT’S WHAT-oh. How…never mind. Never freaking mind. He **carefully** takes the tooth away from Jason and mutters, “Knife broke on the way down, figured this was better than nothing.”

“Mm.” Maybe, he thinks, it’ll bleed out before it can regrow the leg. If it even regrows the leg. Lizards regrow tails, not legs. Right? “You should. Yellow. You should be yellow.”

…um. What.

“Huh.”

Jason sighs like he’s dealing with a stupid person.

“You’re techicly.” Well, that can’t be a good sign. “A. A minion. So. Yellow. Be yellow.”

Great. He’s gonna die. This is the first sign of imminent death.

“Sure, boss,” he says gently. Gotta keep him from, like, freaking out and hurting himself further or bringing the dinosaur down on them. “F’you say so.”

“An’ goggles,” Jason continues, voice getting fainter. “Ya gotta ‘ave the goggles. An’ overaaaalls.” He laughs, sort of, but it promptly turns into a pained cough and a low whine. “S-sssssound good?”

Yeah. Things just went from ‘really bad’ to ‘we’re so screwed’.

“Sure,” he says. “That sounds great.”

Jason makes the low whining noise again and wheezes, “Mmmm-maybe. Don’t shoot at it again.”

He is absolutely going to shoot at it again, if he gets the angle. But what the boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Right?

They have to get out of here. When the sun comes up, they have to at least build an SOS bonfire or something. Honestly, Antoine is tempted to start now, but he doesn’t really want to leave Jason on his own. Not with that thing, and not out of it like this.

(But if he’s gonna be honest with himself, he’s starting to worry that they don’t have **time**.)

“Minion.”

“That’s not gonna be a thing.”

“Shut up, I could die.” Yeah. That’s the problem. “You gotta. Gotta get th’ overalls an’ th’ goggles.”

No.

“Sure, boss,” he lies. “When we get outta here, okay?”

“Hrm.”

If he could trust him to stay awake and with it, he’d leave the rifle and head out and hope for the best. It doesn’t have that many bullets left, but…

Doesn’t matter. He throws that idea in the mental trash can and plunks his head against the wall, breathing deeply. His heart’s pounding in his throat and honestly, he’s. This isn’t. He doesn’t want to die down here.

He’s not going to.

All right. He’s got…four shots left. Enough, if he makes them count. The grenade, in the absolute worst-case scenario. The tooth, since his knife is now dead. And his line. Jason’s got a line and a knife and that’s it.

It’s been a long time since he’s made any sort of tripwires. They have better traps back at base, and watchtowers. But he still knows how, and if it’s one thing he learned growing up, it’s that the big ones fall **hard**.

The tail grew back fast. The leg will probably do the same. But he should still have time.

He takes his grappler and clicks off the safety catch, cringing at the small noise. Nothing bad happens and he stands up, slow and careful, and inches, oh, to maybe ten feet from the water? Give or take? When he’s not dragged into it and eaten, he feels around until he finds a rock, attaches the line, and starts making his way across the cave with it. There’s rocks galore to wrap it around, and honestly, he could probably save the other line for a rainy day. But he’s taking no chances.

It’s a long, tedious process, but eventually there’s a barrier between them and the water, so at least there’ll be a warning if it comes out. That’s the best he can do right now, but it’s better than nothing.

“Don’t you **dare** ,” Jason suddenly murmurs, “don’t you dare quote ‘O Captain!’ at me. I fucking hate ‘O Captain!’.”

“I only know the first couple of lines, boss. And I’m not gonna have to, anyway.”

“Ever the optimist, huh?” He coughs, a wet, awful noise that has Antoine wishing Mark suddenly develops teleportation powers. “Shakespeare’d be all right…jus’. Jus’ not that goddamn Captain crap.”

“Mm.” He scrubs his palms against his thighs to dry them and checks, yet again, to make **sure** that his rifle is loaded. It is. Of course it is-what was that?

Nothing. Water dripping.

When they get back, because of course they’re gonna get back, he is going to get himself a giant cup of ice (well, frozen plastic cubes, because that’s what there is), and he is going to fill that cup about halfway up with vodka, and then top it off with tonic water. And it’s going to be so nice.

And maybe they’ll have a lime lying around to top that drink with. Limes, weirdly enough, grow well out here. He doesn’t know what sorcery that is-nothing else that’s not prickly or poisonous or both survives, barring those little scruffy weeds, but limes? Limes thrive.

“Hey, boss, you think if we look pathetic enough, Frank’ll make those lime candies?” Jason doesn’t answer. “Boss?” He twists over and gives him a little nudge. “Hey. You gotta wake up. ‘Member?” Jes-us…stubborn bastard… “Come on. Wake **up**.”

A harder shake gets no reaction whatsoever. Not that that’s…he’s **fine** , okay? Just. Just very, very unconscious a-and stubborn.

Antoine’s just grabbing for his wrist (he’s paranoid, Jason’s just fine, he’s always fine, right?) when there’s a horrific **CRASH!** and the ground shakes.

**_“YOU!”_ **

Fuck—

He scrambles upright (headshot, he needs a headshot and this’ll all be over) and remembers too late that his flashlight is…somewhere.

He’s made near-blind shots before. And he can see it a little, he can see the shadow on the ground.

Inhale. Exhale. Line up the shot and-WHAT THE HELL—

The monster charges him, jaws open so that the teeth cut through the lines like they’re string. He sprints for the opening. If he can just get some distance-distance. Space. **Grenade.**

“Come on, then! Come and get me, you ugly son of a bitch!”

The sharp turn it takes to follow him slams it against the wall, bringing down a shower of dust and small rocks.

The canyon’s silver in the moonlight. There’s nowhere to hide, or even anywhere to climb to, and he wills his legs to please just go a little bit faster. The ground is shaking, but the monster is huffing.

**You’re no distance runner, are you?**

He’s near the remains of the bike when he realizes that the ground has stopped shaking, and turns, bouncing on the balls of his feet because if he stops moving there’s no guarantee he’ll start again.

Out of the darkness, it’s bigger than he’d realized. Maybe fifteen feet from head to…uh…tail, and even with one arm not **quite** the same length as the others, it’s a brick wall of scales and teeth and what looks like a frill.

And it sees him. Or smells him, whatever. Wherever he steps, the head follows. It looks like it’s grinning. But at least it’s ten feet away, rather than, y’know, right there.

At least, it was. Now it’s lunging forward and his rifle is on the ground as its head slams into the side of his chest, sending him flying into the wall hard enough to crack something.

**Ow…**

There’s two moons. Why are there two moons?

_“Gotcha.”_

Now there’s no moon. Only teeth. And claws scooping him up by the neck, more delicately than he’d thought was possible. He tastes sand.

Grenade. Where is that goddamn grenade—

**WHAM!**

He can’t feel his left arm, now. He can see the grenade it was holding, rolling uselessly away, but even that’s blurry. Everything hurts and he can’t breathe.

His head tips forward, chin landing firmly on a claw. S’over.

**Sorry…**

Something sharp jabs him in the hip. Not. Not a bite, or another claw. Just. Something…sharp…? But his knife broke. He fell down because the knife broke.

The teeth in front of seem to multiply. Teeth. **TOOTH.**

**You know what they say about the fat lady…**

He kicks the monster in the chest. It snarls at him, shakes him, but doesn’t notice his (relatively) uninjured arm scrabbling for the tooth he picked up earlier. It’s slick in his palm (sweat blood who knows) and he grips it hard enough to ache rather than drop it.

_“Hold still!”_

“Bite me.”

And he stabs the nearest yellow eye.

The thing howls, dropping him to claw at the tooth jutting out of its head, and he lunges for the grenade before struggling to his feet. The tail snaps out in his direction and he jumps over it and wobbles a few feet away before pulling the pin out with his teeth and throwing it.

**BOOM!**

He wasn’t far enough away, as it turns out, because, for the second time in less than ten minutes, he’s slammed into the wall. This time there’s a sharp pain on the back of his skull.

He’s out before he hits the ground.

 

 

 

 

*If this was a game, this would be a ‘throw when the line is in the green bar’, and screwing up **would** nail Croc in the head and get you eaten. :)

 


	4. Chapter Four

_“Shit, what happened?”_

_“Antoine? Holy fuck, man, what did you do?”_

_“Wake up, you moron, we didn’t come down here to—”_

_“Come on, man, you gotta—”_

Sun. There’s sun. That’s the only thing he knows right now, is that there is sun.

No, not just sun. Mattress. He’s on a mattress. Safe. He’s safe? Or dying of dehydration and hallucinating.

He may as well look around. Enjoy the potential hallucination. Or, maybe, the last few moments of life before Mark kills him.

Opening his eyes is hard. They’re sort of glued shut, and he can **hear** dried sleep dirt crunching as he pulls them open. He’s in the medical building, and it looks normal enough. White. Empty.

No, literally, it’s empty. He’s alone in here.

**But…but I…**

“You awake this time?”

Antoine’s half-upright before his ribs remind him why that’s bad and he goes back down a little too hard.

“Ow.”

“You look awful,” Jason says from somewhere to his left. He turns his head, making the whole room spin. “What did you **do**?”

He looks fine.

No, seriously, he doesn’t even have a scratch. He’s just flopped in a chair, tablet in his lap, like he wasn’t on the verge of death…whenever…what day is it, anyway?

“I—” he croaks, and then there’s a straw in his mouth. Water. “I think I killed it.”

“You nearly killed yourself,” Mark suddenly snaps, and was he under the bed? Where did he come from? Whyyyyy? “You dumbass.”

“Jones—”

“You’re no better.” Jason’s mouth closes. “But **you**. You’re the Responsible Adult here, man! The fuck was that? Did you hit your head on the way down?”

“I—”

“I don’t care. I don’t care what you did. I want you to never, ever, **ever** do it again. Do I need to modify a ridealong for you? Because I’ll do it! Don’t even test me. I have no problem with taking a bone saw to your head and cramming one of those into what you call a brain, asshole. And I’m skimping on the anesthesia, **Jesus** -oh, you’re not getting off the hook either, hotshot, don’t you laugh at me! You’re getting a tracker along with it…”

Oh, good. Mark’s attention has been diverted. Antoine takes advantage of this to assess himself. He’s on decent painkillers, at least, but he’s not getting up any time soon. His arm’s in a cast, which has been scribbled on (there is at least one penis on there and that’s not fair at all) in multiple different pens. He feels…puffy, is his best description right now, and he’s a little scared to look in the mirror. Hesitant feeling around his neck turns up stitches under his jaw, and now that his hand’s out, there’s also stitches on his palm.

Huh.

Mark finally runs out of rage-or at least out of the air to rage-and rams a thermometer in Antoine’s mouth. He nearly chips a tooth.

“Shut the fuck up.” He wasn’t saying anything? “You’re probably not gonna die, so there’s that. I mean, you scared Jimmy pretty bad, so he might kill you, but if he does it in here I might be able to bring you back. If I’m motivated enough to bother.” The thermometer is swiped back. Antoine feels the need to make sure his mouth isn’t bleeding. “Yeah, you’re fine. Broken, but fine. Good for you.” He straightens up. “I see either of you out of this building, there’ll be Hell to pay, you hear me? Hell. To. Pay.”

He stalks off, slamming the door behind him. Well. That. That wasn’t that bad. All things considered.

“What day is it.”

Jason shrugs.

“I have no idea.” He leans back in the chair and oh. He does have scratches, sort of. His leg’s in a brace (and how he got off that easy, Antoine has no idea, but it’s incredibly unfair*), stretched out in front of him. “Next time I tell you to go, you do it.”

Nah.

“Whatever Mark’s got me on is making everything fuzzy, boss,” he says, squirming down under the sheets a little more. “Come back later.”

“Bullshit.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Jason sighs and turns his tablet back on.

“Don’t,” he grumbles. “Just. Just don’t.”

“You’d have done it.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Just saying.” Wow. Why is the sun so bright? What did he ever do to piss off the sun? “Pots an’ kettles an’ all.”

“Humph. Go back to sleep.”

Everything really is getting kind of fuzzy, and honestly, he has the feeling he’s going to be seeing teeth in his dreams for a long time to come. He may as well enjoy the deep, dreamless sleep Mark’s cocktails provide while he still can.

‘Sides. The sun woke him. The best way to spite it is to go back to sleep.

THE END

 

* **Zombie bullshit. I’m not at all sure that fall didn’t kill me, but it doesn’t matter.-Jason**


End file.
